


Toy Soldiers

by vannja



Series: For King and Country [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Self-Indulgent, age reversal au, for my wife, i just want prompto to be able to get out of his shitty situation for once, implied/reference abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-18 21:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12396216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vannja/pseuds/vannja
Summary: A Prompto Short from the ‘For King and Country’ Age Reversal AU.When MT 0006-0204 decides he’s going to have a soul and he’s going to have hope, he learns the doors open for not just the future, but for himself as well.





	Toy Soldiers

It almost couldn’t stop the shakes. *Almost* being the key word. It had learned early on that if it showed weakness then it would just get hurt. And so it had learned to hide its weaknesses. Though, it was hard to tell if the shakes were from fear, or if they were that other word.  
  
Excitement.  
  
It had been put on the outer perimeter patrol, and it didn’t take the first chance he saw. Nor did it take the second. Nor the third.  
  
The perfect opportunity arose closer to the middle of the night, when it knew the lights would be turned away, when it wasn’t going to be passing anything else on it’s route for quite some time, and it would have ample time to distance itself before another one was supposed to cross his path, and would report it missing.  
  
This was the opportunity it took.  
  
No. This was the opportunity *he* took.  
  
He ran as fast as he could under the heavy armour, his breaths echoing loud beneath his helmet, waiting until he had enough distance to put Phase 2 into action. He had cased the house earlier in the week, knew it was empty, that one of the big (*bigger*) monsters was what the people in the house had been turned into. He stripped off the armour and helmet, letting the metal clank to the ground, before digging through all the layers of fabric until he finds some that don’t immediately fall off. They’re still too large on him, but he figures out how to secure the fabric…the *clothes* on his skinny frame. He arranges the armour in an artfully disheveled manner, before he takes a moment to case the place for anything else he can use. *They* were always taught to only look for targets, that anything else wasn’t worth their attention unless ordered, but *he* had known he had an eye for detail, and that helped him now. He found some gil, found some food and other things to throw together.  
  
He had a timer ticking down in his head, and he moved.  
  
He made it to the train with little to no problem, and when it lurched forward he knew that this would be the hardest part. Waiting.  
  
Well, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to be received, but he’d get to *that* problem when he reached his destination.  
  
He had known early on he was different from the others. The ones that were like him had never had a curious bone in their body (or none of them ever said anything). When they had taken people who had lived outside of the compound, they were broken or killed. He didn’t bother talking to the broken ones. Had watched the amount that they lost themselves until they were just like those who were *made*, until there was nothing left inside.  
  
Empty, that’s what he had heard the ones who wouldn’t break called them. MT. It was fitting. Except that he had never felt empty at all. He had always felt heavy.  
  
Until he didn’t. Until he started to feel lighter, but never empty. It was like he took up the same space, but the mass was becoming less—an idea that the numbers in his brain couldn’t calculate, as his weight remained relatively even and gravity hadn’t changed, so therefore his *mass* couldn’t possibly have reduced—but it felt sometimes like he could float away. It started with the ones they had brought from the outside to be in the experiments. He would listen to them talk about their stories while he stood guard, and at one point he began to put himself into the stories that they told. Eventually, they all stopped telling their stories, either becoming broken or dead, but when time came up for whenever *he* had to get his data run, he would relive them, repeat the words. He’d sometimes feel heavier, again, after those moments, but never as heavy as he had first felt.  
  
Eventually, he learned that the feeling had a name: hope.  
  
Eventually, he gets a theory that those people’s stories gave him something more important than the compound that gave him life…  
  
He thinks those people gave him a soul.  
  
So when he heard the intel circulating the room he was guarding, he knew that even if he failed, he had to *try* and do something. If he didn’t…  
  
He didn’t think about failure. Failure meant pain. Failure meant death.  
  
When the train began to slow, he shook himself out of his stupor. He hadn’t had a shutdown period—*sleep*—He hadn’t *slept*, and he felt his mind drifting. He got off the train with the rest of the people, and knew he didn’t have the money to rest anywhere with walls, so he found a place hidden between buildings to get a few moments of rest. He had some time, despite the counter going down in his brain. He could re-calculate to give himself more time. He knew that *they* wouldn’t expect an MT to do something like this. At best, they would assume he had malfunctioned and was drug off by a daemon or animal. At worst, they would follow his trackers to where he had placed the armour to look like he had ‘died’, but eventually they’d ask why an MT had been so far out in the first place. He ran numbers again, and after that self-reassurance, he told his brain to stop for a few hours.  
  
It was easier than normal, to sleep, feeling as light as he was.  
  
The hard part of Phase 3, he mused, wasn’t getting into Fenestala Manor. He had already seen all the plans, and was thankful again to his eye for detail, because the others would just be trying to strong arm their way in.  
  
But, he knew how to take his time and plan.  
  
No, the hard part wasn’t getting *in*to Fenestala manor, nor was it getting *out* that he was concerned about.  
  
He tried not to think about failure. Failure meant pain and death.  
  
But this time it wasn’t *his* pain and death.  
  
“King Noctis Lucis Caelum?” He only had a moment to realize his voice sounded strange. He hadn’t needed to talk other than ‘Yes’ and ‘Sir’, and even then, he had always heard his voice through the helmet. The sword immediately at his neck, however, reminded him he had to talk fast, and hope the right words came out, even as he put his hands up the sign he had come to understand meant surrender. “I am MT 0006-0204, and I’m here to warn you that you’re in danger.”  
  
—————  
  
He was ‘escorted’ (held at gunpoint) to what appeared to be a fine office in Fenestala Manor. The king had been offered to have the seat behind the desk moved, but had instead just sat beside the desk, staring MT 0006-0204 down. Now that he had a moment to look at the King of Lucis, he decided the man (boy, really) looked rather heavy. Not in weight—he was just a waif of a thing, even if you ignored the wheelchair and how large his Shield was for someone of her gender. King Noctis looked heavy in the same way that MT 0006-0204 had felt, before the stories had given him a soul. Before he had been given *hope*.  
  
The Queen of Tenebrae sat at the desk, folding her hands primly. Her guards were stationed behind her, but the Lucian guards were behind *him*, and it made him uncomfortable, not being able to see them. The exception being the king’s Shield, standing just over the king’s shoulder with her attention narrowed down on MT 0006-0204. She also looked rather heavy—physically *and* metaphorically.  
  
“How old are you?”  
  
The question jolted him slightly, and he looked at the Lucian royal curiously. “…Are you asking about the year of my birth?” He had heard the prisoners answer the same questions in games, especially the younger ones. Where they would then compare their age based on a year that they were born. Not that MT 0006-0204 had been *born* per say. The Lucian royal nodded. “I…don’t know.” While he had been more than willing to insert himself into the stories the experiments from outside had told, he had never really tried to apply them to his actual ‘life’.  
  
“You look like you’re around my age.”  
  
MT 0006-0204 looked at the prince strangely. “And…how old are you?” He hedged. Honestly, he was already surprised he was still alive. Thankful, but surprised.  
  
“Thirteen.” The King said, tilting his head. “Though, you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”  
  
Again, the question had thrown him off. No one had ever asked for a name from him before. “I…am MT 0006-02…”  
  
“Not your designation. Your name. I am speaking to you as Noctis, not the 113th King of Lucis.”  
  
That…That threw him off. Was there a difference? He had only been aware that Noctis Lucis Caelum, King of Lucis, was the target of the Empire. That they feared him on such a level that killing him was a top priority.  
  
But maybe…Maybe it was like when he took off his armour, and stopped being ‘it’ and started being ‘he’. Maybe it was like when the people in the cages who looked at him and saw an MT, but underneath that he was living their stories. Maybe Noctis was the person beneath the mask of the King? But why would ‘Noctis’ want to talk to him and not ‘King Noctis’, when he had all but told them he was from the Empire? Did he need to be more specific, or was the King just too young to comprehend…  
  
“I think you shorted his circuits, your Majesty…”  
  
“Prompto.”  
  
The Shield stopped, looking at him curiously.  
  
“I…I heard a story, about an old hero from Solheim…” He muttered, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.  
  
“Prompto the Messenger.” Noctis said, lips twitching at the corners. “The man who ran to each of the Hexatheon to fore-warn them about Ifrit’s treachery.” Prompto nodded, having always enjoyed the way the name bounced in his head. Noctis tilted his own head to the side, eyes narrowing. “Prompto the Messenger *failed*.” Noctis said. “He only managed to warn 5 of the Hexatheon, and by the time he got to the Archaeon, Ifrit had summoned the Meteor that brought the Starscourge, and Prompto died.”  
  
“I don’t think he failed at all.” He said, still fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “He wasn’t even expecting to make it to the first of the Hexatheon, let alone five of them.” Prompto shifted in his chair as the King’s eyes focused on him, before he made a gesture to continue. “And when the Hydreon wouldn’t hear him, and when the Glacian was too busy with her followers, and when the (TK Ramuh) ignored him, he didn’t stop *trying*” King Noctis’ face still mostly held the look of boredom, but his *eyes*. His eyes were *smiling*. “He didn’t stop until he got to the Archaeon…”  
  
“But by that time, it was too late.” King Noctis reminded him. “Ifrit had already destroyed Solheim and summoned the meteor.”  
  
“I’m quicker!” Prompto surprised himself by shouting. “The Empire…they’re *afraid* of you, and I don’t know why, but if you *survive* there is a chance that they can be stopped.” Prompto took a breath. “The Empire plans to have you assassinated. *Tomorrow*.”  
  
Everyone around the room went rigid, save Noctis, who leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “Alright, Prompto. *Now* you are speaking with the King of Lucis.”

**Author's Note:**

> I took artistic liberties with the origin’s of Prompto’s name. Since FFXV is loaded with Greek-inspired themes and nods to mythology, I took the idea of Hermes as a Greek-inspired hero as opposed to a Greek god, and mixed it some with cannon mythos. Also: I’m of the mind that the Meteor was something like the materia of the same name from FF7, and it hasn’t been confirmed (except for a brief mention in the German version of FFXV) but I also HC that the Starscourge was on the meteor.


End file.
